


Words in the Wind

by simthemuse



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Fluff, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arthur's Emotional Constipation - Freeform, Bromance, Depends on how you look at it, Fluff, Gen, Historical References, Hurt/Comfort, Immortal!Merlin, Immortality, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Letters, Merlin deserves better than this, Merlin finally gets a hug, Moonshine, References to Alcohol, Reincarnation, or Romance, references to death, reincarnated!Arthur, various historical figures - Freeform, yeah immortality sucks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2020-03-02 07:56:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18806959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simthemuse/pseuds/simthemuse
Summary: Even after 1500 years, Merlin still lies to them.





	Words in the Wind

 

_I have died every day waiting for you_

 

When Arthur Phillips was ten years old, he had a dream that he was a king, his best friend was a wizard, and he had a wife named Guinevere. It felt so strange, so weird, so vivid, and he couldn’t stop thinking about it. He told his older sister Morgan about it, but she just told him to shove off, she was busy doing homework, who cares about dreams when she’s got her SAT coming up.

And he did ‘shove off’, one could suppose - he stopped nagging her about it, at least. But that didn’t make the dreams stop. In fact, they only got more intense from there. Every night, his sleep would be overcome by dreams - _memories_ \- of dragons, witches, and swords. And he loved almost every minute of it.

By his sophomore year, he’d had enough dreams to put together a complete autobiography of what he figured must have been a past life. He called it, “For the Love of Camelot”, because that phrase seemed to evoke a deep, visceral emotion that even his memories couldn’t quite explain.

He wrote about two-faced half-sisters, loyal servants, and chronically drunk knights. He wrote about dragon eggs, questing beasts, and immortal armies. He wrote about all the bits in between, all the silent moments where it was just him and his servant, counting the stars and talking about the future.

The fact that the characters in his memories were so similar to those of Arthurian mythology brought a touch of doubt into his Past-Life Theory. After all, the Round Table was just a myth, wasn’t it?

But then again, if it was a myth, then how could he have a flawless recollection of every crack and crevice and splinter in the Table’s surface? How could he remember the feeling of cool wood under his hand, or the swelling pride in his chest as he looked on at his most loyal men working together?

Perhaps, then, there was some merit to Arthurian mythology after all. Just that the historians got it very, very wrong.

When Arthur started college, he met a man named Leo Knight, and an english professor named James Gaius. He discreetly emailed them both copies of his autobiography, and they both replied with astonishment that they were not the only ones with dreams like this.

On Fridays, the three of them would meet up for coffee to discuss the past and present - what happened after Camlann, what they were up to in this era, how this whole reincarnation thing was possible, and just general friendly nonsense. He and Leo - Leon - got straight to work trying to find the rest of their old crew, and within the year they had uploaded “For the Love of Camelot” onto social media.

A few months later, Gaius ran into Percival - now Percy Vaults, a 26-year-old taekwondo instructor - at the grocery store, and he was introduced into the fold of their Modern Round Table. He and Leon instantly reconnected like long-lost siblings, commiserating over the 33 years of post-Camlann service they shared together. Apparently, they had died beside each other on the battlefield, fighting as one.

With permission from Arthur, everyone else’s accounts were added to the now epic-length autobiography.

Two years later, at Leon’s graduation ceremony (he’d finally gotten his doctorate in neuroscience), the group was confronted by a rather familiar girl wearing a bright yellow jumper.

While it was strange to see Guinevere - now a 30-year-old craft store owner named Gwen Strange - in such modern clothing, but Arthur couldn’t deny that she still looked as stunning as ever. It seemed she found them through the autobiography, and tracked down their location with a little help from her hacker brother Ethan. It went without saying who ‘Ethan’ was.

The group happily expanded to include the Strange siblings. They changed their meetups to Saturday evening dinners at Gwen’s surprisingly sizeable estate (being the owner of a successful craft store chain had to have its perks, after all. They all laughed at how she’d named it ‘Camelot Crafts’). The new size change lasted for about six months, and with Christmas came a bar fight and an old friend.

In this life, Gwaine went by “Gulliver Collins”, and he was the butt of endless teasing about his bizarre first name. He had it legally changed to Gwaine within the week, but that meant nothing in the eyes of his former companions.

Unfortunately, reincarnation wasn’t as easy on Gwaine as the rest of them. Living on the streets, unable to hold down a job, and a wealth of mental health problems - most of which stemmed from recurring dreams of his traumatic death, a horrifying circumstance that had him screaming in his sleep on occasion. But they did what they could for him, forcing him into a permanent residency at Gwen’s place and giving him a job at one of her stores and paying for his therapy.

Lancelot, or rather, Lance Lake, 35-year-old archaeology professor, also found them through the autobiography. He sent them an email telling them who he was, the true nature of the Shade fiasco, details about the affair that not even Gwen knew, and a full essay’s worth of heartfelt apologies. Arthur, who had recently inherited his father’s weapons manufacturing company, paid for Lance’s ticket on the first flight out to see them. The reunion was sweet, and wonderful, and though Lance already knew what had happened in his absence due to the autobiography, he still relished in their Saturday-night storytelling.

It was around this time that Arthur began making jokes about how of _course_ Merlin would be the last to show up, he always did have a habit for being late. In truth, he only made these jokes to cover his own worries and concerns that Merlin hadn’t been reincarnated too, or that he was dead, or - or - or -

On his 30th birthday, after the birthday party held at Leon’s place, Arthur excused himself from the festivities saying he needed to go out for a ‘late-night drive’. Just to see the countryside, he said, but they all knew where he was really going. He was headed to the same place he went every year on his birthday: the lake.

The first time Arthur dreamed of dying in Merlin’s arms was the night before picture day of his freshman year. As a result, his photo in the yearbook turned out with red-rimmed eyes and a face looking far too exhausted for someone so young. And even after all these years to come to terms with his past death and move on, it still stung a bit. Sometimes, during heavy thunderstorms, he could feel a slight twinge in the place he’d been stabbed.

He sat out on a hill beside the lake that looked nothing like it used to, and yet hadn’t changed a bit, knees pulled to his chest and a forlorn look striking his features. He would have sat there, reminiscing on old times and questioning where the hell Merlin was, if not for the figure walking along the shore.

The rather _familiar_ figure walking along the shore.

“...Merlin?”

The figure looked up, their body turning rigid and their face morphing into shock. “A-Arthur?”

They ran to each other and fell into a tight, tumbling hug. No words were said, because no words were needed. The mere sensation of each other’s presence was more than enough.

Merlin - ‘Max Elric’ - drove a rather stylish 1960 AC Cobra whom he affectionately called Samantha. It had a Bugs Bunny bobblehead on the dashboard, an overflow of textbooks stacked in the shotgun seat, and white racing stripes down the middle. Arthur was tempted to abandon his own Chevrolet Silverado and ride back to the house with Merlin, if only to muss up the tan leather seats he seemed so obsessed with keeping clean.

Everyone else was ecstatic to see him returned, and Gwaine treated them all to a round of cheap boxed wine to celebrate that their set was now complete.

Merlin was always rather reticent about his past, and despite their cajoling and coaxing and constant reminders of ‘no more secrets, Merlin’, they got very little out of him. What they did know was this: he was born on June 3rd, 1991, he was living off the estate of his wealthy but deceased grandfather, “Emanuel Elric”, with whom he bore an uncanny resemblance, and was currently making a name for himself by teaching a course on magic tricks. But where the magic ended and the trick began, no one could tell.

Gwaine, though he deeply appreciated Gwen’s hospitality, fled the coop to move in with his old partner in crime, and with Merlin’s support decided to finish his education.

It was this that they were celebrating on the night of December 13th, 2018. Gwaine had finally gotten his GED, and Merlin had decided to throw a massive party at his house in celebration. All except Leon, who was serving a year in Doctors Without Borders, were in attendance. Even Lance had left the comfort of his beloved Parisian condo and flew in for a visit.

Merlin’s house was a simple two-story affair, spirals of ivy clinging to the limestone walls and a thin layer of snow dusting his perfectly manicured hedges. He claimed the house had been in the Elric family for generations, and it certainly looked the part.

Arthur knocked on the bright red door a few times, trying and failing not to shiver within his thick wool coat. Within moments, Merlin swung the door open, an ugly Christmas sweater hung on his thin frame and arms stretched out in a welcoming gesture.

“Hey, look what the cat dragged in,” he greeted, and the two pulled into a quick one-armed hug before Arthur stepped inside. “Get in, get in, before you turn into a prat-sicle.”

Arthur rolled his eyes, shrugging off his coat as Merlin shut the door behind him. “Your wit still knows no bounds, I see.”

Merlin shoved him in the arm. “ _Someone_ needs to be the smart one around here.”

A feminine voice called out from the kitchen, “What about me?”

“Sorry, Gwen!” he laughed. Merlin turned back to Arthur to ask him something, but Gwaine barged into the hall before he could.

“Hey, princess!” Gwaine submerged him into a firm bear-hug, and began leading him by the wrist into the living room. “Gwen and Gaius say dinner should be ready in about half an hour, so that gives you _plenty_ of time to bow before the presence of my superior GED. C’mon, it’s on the coffee table.”

Merlin chuckled. “You still haven’t hung it up yet?”

“Well I’ve got to put it someplace _special_ ,” Gwaine said with a huff. “Mr. I-Keep-All-My-Personal-Belongings-Locked-in-the-Basement.”

Now it was Merlin’s turn to be indignant. “I’m sorry, not all of us are fond of flaunting our achievements like a peacock.”

Arthur spared a glance at Gwaine’s light-up sweater. “Peacock, indeed.” To which Gwaine punched him, which sent them both chasing after each other into the living room.

The next twenty minutes passed with Merlin, Arthur, Percy, Gwaine, and Elyan sitting on century-old furniture held together with duct tape, magic, and lots of love. They chatted on about what Gwaine planned to do with his GED (go to nursing school), what was for dinner (pot roast), Elyan’s potential engagement, and a dramatic retelling of the Perilous Lands quest. It was pleasant, and amicable, and felt just like old times. Except, now with less suffering. After what medieval times had forced them to endure, perhaps they deserved a danger-free, destiny-free do-over. Perhaps after all the death and bloodshed, they had earned this second life.

At mention of second lives, Merlin’s face darkened imperceptibly, and Arthur got a chilling sensation he was keeping secrets again.

Gwen emerged from the kitchen to give Arthur a quick peck on the cheek and to say that dinner was delayed due to oven troubles. For the fifteenth time Merlin offered to snap dinner together with a flash of gold, but she refused.

“Can’t we have a nice, magic-free meal once in a while?” she asked. “Just preparing food the old- fashioned way.”

“Gwen, I appreciate your respect for the culinary arts, but there’s a _reason_ we don’t use that oven.”

“Well what happens when Gwaine’s alone in the house and you’re not around to magic his meal together?”

Gwaine shrugged. “Eh, I’ve got a microwave and a mini fridge in my room. I’m a big boy, queenie, I can handle myself.”

The mere notion of Gwaine living off of hot pockets and TV dinners - while entirely precedented - horrified Gwen to her core. She grabbed him by the shoulders, shaking him a bit as she said, “Have I taught you _nothing_?”

Everyone laughed at that. “If it’s not broken, why fix it?” was Gwaine’s eloquent response, and Gwen looked an inch away from forcing him to move back in with her.

“Bachelors,” she grumbled.

“Hey now -” Merlin started, but he was interrupted by his phone ringing. It was an old flip-phone with a cracked screen, and no one could convince him to upgrade to something nicer. “Hello? Oh, hey, Lance. Really? Well darn. Yeah, sure, okay. On my way. Seeya in a few.” He hung up.

“Lance’s plane land yet?” Arthur surmised.

“Yep. It’s an hour early, but I did I say I’d pick him up.”

“Ah, right,” said Percy, his face lighting up in realization. “He’s supposed to be staying at your place through till Christmas, right?”

Gwaine nodded. “I’m just amazed we managed to drag that old workaholic away from his desk, let alone for  _two whole weeks_. You can bet we’re spending that time in Hawaii or something.”

Merlin snorted. “Yeah, you wish.”

“You sure you should drive out in that?” Elyan asked, bringing the conversation back on track. And he had a point. While the snow had been just flurries when Arthur arrived, there was now a thick white downpour outside the window. “The weather report says it’s supposed to get worse.”

Merlin chortled, waving flippantly. “Trust me, I’ve face enemies scarier than a bit of snow. It’s gonna take a lot more than little white flakes to shut _me_ out.”

“And you call _me_ arrogant,” Arthur said, causing Merlin’s eyes to glow gold and a gust of hot wind to blast Arthur's face in retaliation.

“Really though. I’ll be fine, guys,” said Merlin, and everyone knew not to get in the way when his mind was set like this.

Arthur offered to tag along, but he’d skipped lunch just so he could enjoy extra helpings of Gwen’s cooking tonight, and he really didn’t fancy missing dinner when it was so close to being done.

Merlin made a snarky jab at his ever-expanding waistline, warning that he’d wind up just as fat as his Camelot days if he wasn’t careful.

Arthur chucked one of the embroidered throw-pillows at him, and with an impish wink, Merlin was out the door.

No one thought twice when Gaius announced that dinner was ready, and still Merlin and Lance hadn’t arrived. Through the eating and laughing and champagne and minor stint of Elyan, Gwaine, and Percy flinging peas at each other, no one’s thoughts strayed back to their absent friends. Not when Gwaine did a jig on his chair, not even during a more somber moment as they reminisced on Morgana.

It wasn’t until nearly 9 PM, two hours later, with everyone toasting to Gwaine’s academic success, that Gaius posed the question: “Where are Merlin and Lancelot?”

“Late as always,” Arthur gruffed out, but summoned his phone nonetheless. “Let’s see what that idiot has to say for himself. If he doesn’t show up in the next half hour I say we eat dessert without him.”

This decision was seconded by everyone but Gwen and Gaius, who were undoubtedly questioning what they did to deserve babysitter duty.

Arthur dialed his warlock once, twice, thrice….

 _“A-ah! Ar- kssh -ur,”_ came a staticy voice. _“Sor- kssh -we’re late- kssh -but this snow is r- kssh -ing up. The roads- kssh -blocked. Kssh -might be a while.”_

“Merlin you idiot,” Arthur groaned. “Didn’t we say this exact thing would happen?”

_“Wh- kssh -t?”_

“I _said_ \- oh forget it, just get home soon.” And with that, he hung up.

Elyan flashed a knowing smirk. “Not to say I told you so, but I did tell him so.”

Rolling his eyes, Arthur said, “Yes, and we all know how well he does what he’s told. One day it’ll be the death of him.”

While the rest of the group carried varying expressions of concern and exasperation at this turn of events, Gwaine jumped to his feet, smile wide and eyes glinting like he had just sat on Santa’s lap for the first time.

“Oh! Oh!” he exclaimed. “If Merlin’s not here, then that means we can pull out the _good stuff_.”

Gaius gave his iconic eyebrow-raise, which had miraculously increased in severity upon reincarnation. “Dare I ask?”

Gwaine’s manic grin only deepened at the former physician’s concern - everyone’s concern, in fact, because whenever Gwaine got in a mood such as this, there was trouble abound. “Merlin, that lucky and mysterious bastard, somehow has a stash of moonshine. As in, literal moonshine, from the Whiskey Rebellion. From _1795_. Apparently it’s been in his family for generations because his great-great-something or other was a bootlegger. But the Elrics are only allowed to drink from the stash once every ten years or something. I keep pleading with him to make an acception, because he’s not supposed to open one up for another six years and I don’t know if I can wait that long. But now, I think I’ve got my chance!”

“Do you really think that’s -” Gwen started, but Gwaine cut her off.

“I just got my GED, queenie! This ought to be a national holiday, dangit, so we’re going to give this night everything we’ve got! I want to get to drunk like I’m living during the Prohibition and I just found out my wife’s been cheating on me. I want to get drunk like I’m a Union soldier the night before a battle I don’t expect to win. I want to get drunk like-”

“We _get it_!” Arthur hissed. “We’ll drink your stupid moonshine, just shut up already. Now where is it?”

Gwaine’s eyes got genuinely teary. Hand flying to his chest, he said, “I thought you’d never ask.”

And that was how the former members of the Round Table, once a group dedicated to honour and chivalry and fighting for the good of the order, found themselves snooping around in a wizard’s musty old basement for a bottle of centuries-old alcohol. Because life is just like that sometimes.

The basement was large and labyrinthine, no doubt elongated and twisted into its maze-like shape with a little help from Merlin’s magic. Tall steel shelves lined along like grocery aisles, packed to the brim with historical mementos and dusty, unlabeled boxes.

When Merlin gave Arthur a brief tour just two years ago, he had explained that the Elrics were a family of collectors and this place was the fruits of their labour.

He spared a glance at a row of French Revolution death masks, one of which bearing a queasy resemblance to Merlin himself.

Collectors indeed.

“Where are we supposed to find your precious moonshine in all this?” Percy groaned. “This place is huge!”

“All the more reason not to go rummaging in Merlin’s things,” Gwen sniffed, but made no move to leave. From the gleam in her eye, Arthur could tell she was just as curious as the rest of them to see everything Merlin had down here.

Ever the strategist, Arthur coordinated for each person to take a different direction in pairs - Arthur and Gwen, Elyan and Gwaine, Percy and Gaius - and to reconvene at the basement stairs in ten minutes if they didn’t find anything.

Before departing, Gwaine saluted. “I won’t let you down, sire.”

A rather vindictive part of him hoped they didn’t find the alcohol, just so Gwaine could be hilariously let down.

Arthur and Gwen walked along in relative silence, taking the time to admire all the black-and-white photos of long-dead Elrics who all looked unnervingly like Merlin, medieval swords, World War II memorabilia, various muskets and revolvers, and a few pressed and framed exotic plants marked with timestamps that dated back all the way to the mid-1600s.

But even amongst Native American arrowheads and magically preserved Korean pastries, there was one thing that stood out to Arthur. And it was perhaps the most unassuming item in the whole basement.

It was a wooden chest painted grey, with rusty copper handles and a strip of white tape adhered to the side and marked with black sharpie that read, “GET RID OF THESE!”

Arthur chuckled. It was in Merlin’s signature scrawl, meaning this box belonged to him instead of his ancestors. And whatever was inside clearly had to be embarrassing, considering he intended to dispose of its contents.

Gwen, of course, put up a right fit at him for invading Merlin’s privacy, but when they came back to the rendezvous ten minutes later to show everyone what they’d found (moonshine still MIA), even Gaius had to admit he was curious.

“That boy holds far too many secrets for his own good,” said Gaius. “I still think it’s foolish to invade his privacy like this, but I can’t deny that I’m curious to see what’s inside the box. - That’s _not_ an invitation to open it, Arthur.”

Arthur shrugged. “Eh. It’s his own fault for hiding things from us after all these years.”

“With all his promises of ‘no more secrets’,” Gwaine added, fingers already prodding at one of the hinges. “I think we well deserve to see what he’s keeping to himself.”

Gaius and Gwen relented eventually, knowing a lost cause when they saw one, but while neither of them were too pleased with the democratically voted-on decision to open the box, even they couldn’t hide the eagerness in their eyes.

Arthur already knew about Merlin’s magic, his dragonlord abilities, even that he poisoned Morgana. They’d had a long chat about everything Merlin did in Camelot, every secret he held, every lie he told. And at the end of that exhausting conversation, he vowed to them that he would never hide anything again.

So even after knowing the worst of Merlin’s crimes, what more could he possibly find reason to hide? What sorts of darkness could possibly dwell within the life of a 28-year-old online tutor and part-time warlock?

Arthur tried to convince himself that it was probably just embarrassing baby photos, or maybe some lewd magazines - but the slight tremor in his bones told him that it was much, much worse.

Body tense with anticipation, Arthur pulled up the box’s lid.

And...and...and…

Letters. Just packets and packets of letters. In all types of paper, with various inks and in various conditions.

This? _This_ was Merlin’s deep dark secret?

Arthur could only laugh at the absurdity of it.

“Letters,” Elyan said, sounding almost disappointed. In a way, they all were. There was no way a box of _letters_ could be any bit more scandalous than the stuffed komodo dragon in the corner, or the shrunken heads stapled to the walls.

Undeterred, Gwaine picked up one of the letters. The paper was yellowed and fragile, and looked as though it would crumble if he held it too tight.

“Dear Arthur,” he read aloud, eyebrows wiggling suggestively towards his king.

“Just get on with it,” Arthur groaned.

Gwaine cleared his throat. “Dear Arthur. I still haven’t…” Gwaine’s brow furrowed, mouth taut in a thin line, face puckered as though the letter had personally offended him. Perhaps it had.

“What?”

No response.

When it became clear Gwaine wasn’t going to continue reading any time soon, Arthur plucked the letter from his hands and started it off himself.

Arthur opened his mouth to read Merlin’s sloppy chicken scratch, but within moments he realized what had made Gwaine so upset.

_Dear Arthur,_

_I still haven’t forgotten the haunted look in Fiona’s eyes as they burned her at the stake. Her screams, her body writhing and blackening as she begged someone, anyone, to save her. I wanted to. God, I felt every muscle in my body_ aching _to reach out and pull her away. But I haven’t forgotten what happened when I tried to save the Aztecs. And maybe it’d be worth it to be grounded from using magic for a few years, if it means saving Fiona from a painful death, but like I said. I don’t want a repeat of the Aztecs. When I rescued Montague from those pirates using my magic, I hadn’t expected to lose my magic for quite so long. And perhaps if I hadn’t saved him, if I still had my magic at the time, I could have stopped the Spaniards from killing and enslaving everyone in that blasted city. Maybe I could’ve done something. I know you would’ve done something, if you were here. You would’ve grabbed Cortes by the balls and hurled him into the ocean. I would pay good money to see that._

 _But that’s my curse, isn’t it? I’m given magic beyond human comprehension, I’m given literal_ immortality _, but every time I try to make myself useful, the Powers That Be block my magic for a few decades. They tell me I’m not supposed to ‘meddle in the affairs of man’ or something of the like. Meanwhile, I still think the Black Plague could’ve been avoided - or hell, the Crusades! - if they just let me do my thing. They really should. Fiona could still be alive if they weren’t so finicky about this._

_Perhaps it’s punishment for not getting you to Avalon in time, for letting you die with destiny unfulfilled, for letting Albion live and die a pipe dream. Maybe they only told me you’d return to placate me and keep me hopeful, when in truth I’ll wander this earth forever alone._

_No. I refuse to believe that. For all that he’s a cryptic, manipulative sack of scales who’d sooner sprout a beak than give me a straight answer, Kilgharrah isn’t a liar. Not like me. And he said that Arthur would rise again when Albion’s need was greatest, and he wouldn’t lie about that. The Sidhe? Sure. They never liked me anyway. The Disir? Wouldn’t be surprised. But not Kilgharrah. Never Kilgharrah. So yes, you’ll come back one day. I just need to be patient._

_Until then, I think I might take a page from Martha Gresser’s book and leave Salem altogether. There’s nothing left for me here, not without Fiona. Maybe I’ll have better luck with the  Wampanoags._

_As always,_

_Merlin_

 

What? What was all this about Salem and plagues and immortality and Aztecs? What was this letter implying? It didn’t make sense. Merlin said that his first life had ended when Gwen’s did.

“The heartbreak is what killed me,” is what he had said that rainy Monday morning. “I had watched too many loved ones die, and I did everything I could to join them. A few days after Gwen’s death, I took a draught of hemlock and went to sleep.”

That’s what he had said. That’s the story he fed them. Was it a lie? Was he still lying to them, after all this time?

No, no, there had to be a reasonable explanation for this. There _had to_. Shaking with desperation, Arthur reached into the chest for another letter, ignoring the letters in everyone else’s hands and the tears streaming down their faces.

 

_Dear Arthur,_

_Anastasia’s gone. She’s been gone for ten years. Adrik says I need to move on because she’s dead and she’s not coming back. That’s what everyone thinks. But no one knows for certain what happened in that cellar, so there’s still hope._

_I have friends amongst the Bolsheviks. They wouldn’t hurt her. She’s just a child. They wouldn’t kill a child._

_You know in some strange way, Anastasia reminds me of you. You’ve got almost nothing in common, and she’s worlds nicer and prettier than your ugly mug could hope to be, but Anastasia has the spirit. She has the fire in her eyes. Sometimes I accidentally call her ‘clotpole’ and ‘dollophead’ - she’s even more confused by the nicknames than you were, because they don’t have any Russian equivalents. Sometimes I look at her and suddenly I think I’m talking to King Arthur of Camelot, and then I’m forgetting that you’ve been dead for over a thousand years. When that happens, I always find myself appreciating the invention of vodka._

_I told Adrik I’d give it five more years. If I can’t find her by 1933, I’ll accept the belief that she’s dead and I’ll move on with my life. I can’t wait to see the look on Adrik’s face when he realizes I was right all along, when I walk in with a grown-up Anastasia hanging off my arm. Sometimes I wonder what motivates me more: my concern for the little duchess’s whereabouts, or Adrik’s inevitable reaction._

_I wish I hadn’t gotten my magic grounded trying to break Jack Spicket out of prison back in ‘97. Because if I had my magic right now, I might be able to use a tracking spell or something to figure out where she’s gone._

_Better yet, I wish you were here. I know it’s not Albion’s time of greatest need or whatever, but you always were an expert tracker. I could use the help._

_As always,_

_Merlin_

 

No. No. No no no. This wasn’t right, this wasn’t possible. He knew exactly what these letters meant, but he wished he didn’t. And his throat closed up, suffocating and smothering and killing him, just to think of the truth.

Perhaps Merlin was right. Sometimes ignorance truly is bliss. Perhaps he should have gotten rid of these thrice-cursed letters like he intended.

Gwen let out a loud, choked sob, her whole body shaking. “Oh, Merlin.” Her body shook so tremorously that the letter she was holding threatened to slip from her fingers.

Still in a daze, Arthur found himself hovering at her shoulder, peering above her head to read the horrible, horrible words in her grasp. He couldn't bear to read it, couldn't bear the truth, but at the same time he couldn't look away.

 

_Dear Arthur,_

_You’re not coming, are you?_

_The Germans blasted off my leg. It’ll grow back. It always does. It took my eye seven years to grow back after it got shot out at Ticonderoga. I wager it’ll take about twelve or fifteen for my leg to regenerate._

_I hope the war’s over by then._

_Do you think the Germans will have won? I hope not. They took my leg._

_Oh god, it hurts. I think the only thing that’s ever hurt worse was that one time Morgana left me for dead in a serket nest. Whatever happened to the serkets anyway? People these days are so lucky most magical creatures have died out. If I never see another manticore again, it’ll be too soon._

_Why am I writing to you? You’ll never read this. No one ever will. I don’t know why I keep writing letters to a dead man. You’ve been dead for nearly 1500 years, and it’s time I let go of my naivete and face the truth._

_I know back in ‘75 I agreed I’d move on and I’d stop hurting over your loss. But can’t I just have a quick moment of reprieve, where I can sit here and cry and suffer for a bit?_

_No, I can’t. Because Eli’s been shot in the neck and I have to heal him. I can only hope I don’t get grounded for saving his life._

_Is this what dying feels like? I’ve always wondered._

_As always,_

 

But instead of the letter being signed with a name, there was only a smear of blood across the bottom of the page.

Arthur wasn’t sure whether to hurl, cry, or punch the wall.

Gwaine did all three for him. But it was not from the blood smear or the idea of Merlin suffering alone on a battlefield, or even the idea that he felt the need to hide this from them. No. His reaction came from another letter entirely.

As Gwaine yowled and nursed his throbbing knuckles - the wall he’d punched was made of concrete, after all - Arthur picked up the letter the ex-knight had been reading. Even though he didn’t want to know what it said, even though he wished he’d never found this box, even though he wished he could forget everything he’d just read. He didn’t want to know, but he _needed_ to know. So he buckled down, sucked it up, and carried on.

 

_Dear Arthur,_

_Can you believe it? The Chinese have built a wall that goes on forever. I’m not alone! I’m not the only thing in this world that is infinite and unending. It feels good, standing on this wall and looking far out in every direction and finding no end in sight._ _The Wall was built before even you and I were born, and so far it’s stood the test of time. Unweathered, unfazed, unaged. Just like me._

_I bet you fifty taels that I outlive this wall. Because my luck is just that rotten._

_The thought is...terrifying to admit. I’ve already been alive how many centuries? I’ve watched civilizations rise and fall, and will continue to do so for however many centuries more._

_I threw myself off the edge of this wall a few hours ago. Just to make sure I didn’t outlive it. Just to make sure it would last forever, and not me. Perhaps in some strange, superstitious way I thought that if the wall killed me, it could inherit my immortality and I could finally die in peace. After all, no mortal can kill me, and this wall is anything but. Maybe this great wall could succeed where countless others have failed._

_No such luck. You know how these things are. Now I’ve got to walk around with a broken spine, and isn’t that just fun._

_I miss you, sire. Where are you?_

_As always,_

_Merlin_

 

No. This was all wrong. Merlin died when he was the ripe old age of 83, five days after Gwen. He didn’t live on. He wasn’t cursed to wait for centuries, cursed to wait for the dead to rise again. He was Max Elric, born on June 3rd, 1991. His grandfather Emanuel Elric died seventeen years ago, granting all his belongings to his only heir.

His only heir who looked exactly like him.

His only heir who, like every last one of his identical predecessors, had an unnamed and unknown mother who died in childbirth.

“The heartbreak is what killed me,” is what Merlin had said.

“I had watched too many loved ones die.”

“I did everything I could to join them.”

“A few days after Gwen’s death, I took a draught of hemlock and went to sleep.”

That couldn’t be a lie. The pain in his eyes as he told that story wasn’t fake.

And it wasn’t a lie. He really did poison himself.

It’s just that the poison didn’t kill him.

“What is all this?” Elyan murmured in disbelief, sounding every bit as broken and horrified as Arthur felt. “What does it all mean?”

Gaius, face wet and ancient, lifted up his head from a letter of his own and said, “You’ve heard of the King Arthur legends, where Merlin is the immortal wizard who walks the earth while waiting for his king to return. It was daft of us all to forget such a crucial part of the mythos.”

Arthur could only smack his head. He’d even talked to Merlin about this once. He had asked Merlin about the immortal element of the legends, and Merlin just laughed it off saying that people who thought Mordred was Arthur and Morgana’s lovechild were not to be trusted.

True. They had gotten a lot of details wrong.

But they had gotten this one _right._

Arthur wished they didn’t.

Percy held up his own letter, and even despite the tearful sheen to his eyes, he said, “Well, at least it’s not _all_ bad.”

What?

Suddenly everyone was converging on him, but he held the letter high above his head so no one could swarm him by reading over his shoulder. Once everyone backed a few steps away, he began reading the letter aloud to them.

“Dear Arthur,” he began, because that was how all the letters did. “What a fool I’ve been. I’ve spent the last thousand years moping around and waiting for you to return, trying to die, missing you, longing you, craving worlds and people that have long since turned to ash. What a fool I’ve been.”

Arthur swallowed hard, unsure of where this was going and not allowing himself any hope.

“I was up on the construction mount today,” Percy continued, matching Merlin’s speech inflections almost beat for beat. If not for the natural baritone of the former knight’s voice, it almost would have sounded like Merlin himself were speaking. “The Statue of Liberty is nearly done, sire. I think you’d like her. Maybe it’s my own bias because I helped build the darn thing - without magic, would you believe, because yes I’m grounded again - but I must say the only women prettier than Lady Liberty herself are Gwen, Freya, my mother, and _maybe_ Veronica. I only add Veronica to the list because she hates it when I call her pretty. ‘I’m a lady,’ she says. ‘I can’t be pretty, I ought to be beautiful’. Well I always tell her that the definition of beautiful must have changed since last I checked, because I didn’t realize ‘beautiful’ meant ‘scowl-faced cat arse’.”

Everyone laughed. This definitely sounded like something their Merlin would say.

Arthur hated how much the letters sounded like their Merlin, because now there was no way to deny who had actually written them. He couldn’t put his fingers in his ears and think that maybe a distant ancestor had put these terrible things together, and carry on pretending that Merlin hadn’t had to suffer hundreds of years - _hundreds_ \- alone.

Once the half-mirthless laughter fell back into an eerie, pensive silence, Percy pressed on. “I realized something today,” he read. “While I was up there on lunch break. For hundreds of years, I’ve watched people carry on in the same cycles. Live, die, repeat. And for the longest time I loathed it. Why live if you will only die? Why try and save yourself if it doesn’t even matter in the end? Humans must have it so easy, I thought. They spend their whole lives thinking any of this matters. They won’t live to see their skyscrapers fall, they won’t live to see their countries collapse. To them, this is forever. They can truly enjoy music and art and comedy because to them, that’s everything. But for me, who’s seen the tides of time and came back unimpressed, a night at the pub is just a forgettable blink. Years feel like hours or days. For me, everything comes and goes at such a ferocious speed and I can’t bother myself with keeping track of it all. What was the point of settling down and getting attached, if I’ll only be able to hold these people for a few hours, and then watch them die in sometimes brutal ways?”

Arthur could guess that there wasn’t a soul in this basement who wasn’t crying. He’d even guess that he was crying too, but he was too busy pouring all his focus into his tightly clenched fists and the nails digging into his palms to notice.

It wasn’t fair. None of it was fair. Merlin didn’t deserve this kind of life. No, this couldn’t even be called ‘life’. This was torture. And after everything he endured during Camelot, he was the last person who deserved such a curse as immortality.

How many people had he held in his arms, memorizing their faces as they whispered their final words into his ears? How many times did he attempt death, only to stand back up and realize it didn’t work? How many times did he go insane from the emptiness of it all?

Percy went on. “But I was sitting up there this afternoon, looking down at the city. At all the tiny little humans bustling about their daily routines, the tiny insignificance of it all. And I realized something, Arthur. It’s not the humans who have it easy, it’s me. They have to rush around because they’ve only got a few decades to make their mark. And sure, maybe that mark will mean nothing a thousand years from now. But I think they know that. I think they know just how weak and unimportant they are, how pointless their own existence is. But they keep pushing on anyways. They keep building, and loving, and laughing, because they’ve learned how to make their fleeting lives feel like forever. A good forever. A friendly forever. They strive to make change not _despite_ their uselessness, but _because_ of it. I’ve got over a millennium under my belt, and what have I done? Womped and wallowed, mostly. Waxed poetic about the glory days. Screamed at a few lakes.”

A few more chuckles filled the basement, but these were even quieter and sadder than the last.

“What one human can do,” Percy said, choking up a bit himself. “In seventy years, is ten million times more than what I’ve done with a thousand. So by God, I’m going to stop it with all this death nonsense and start living a little. I’m going to make change - real change, and I’ll do it without my magic. I’ll do it as you would’ve done. As you and Percival and Gwaine and Leon and Gwen and Elyan would have done. I’ll be a doctor, perhaps, or a soldier.”

Percy took a deep breath to gather his bearings before he continued. "It hurts. It hurts a great deal, you know, thinking back on you lazy lot. On how little I remember of the way things were. What’s your hair colour again? Which knight was Gwen’s brother? What was the name of Gwaine’s favourite tavern? Were Gaius’s eyes blue or brown? I don’t remember. I think…” Percy sniffled, wiped his eyes. “...I think I’m okay with that. For once, I’m letting you go now. I’m ready to let go. As always, Merlin.”

Arthur cleared his throat, but said nothing. What was there to say? Nothing seemed to suffice. Every word lodged in his throat paled in comparison to the weighty notion that Merlin had been _alive_ all these years, that he’d never died, that he had waited just for them, and that they took 1500 years to come back to him.

Arthur knew he would’ve gone mad if he had to wait that long.

But Merlin hadn’t.

Suddenly, Arthur realized why Merlin had lied about this.

And honestly?

Arthur couldn’t blame him. He probably would’ve lied about it to.

They spent the next few minutes, hours, days, however long it was - just sitting on the cold basement floor, passing letters between them. Learning about their beloved warlock who gave and never received. Who kept everything to himself. Who still, after all these centuries, lied to them.

For the next stretch of eternity  - or rather, two hours and fourteen minutes - the Round Table uncovered every little agony he kept buried.

They laughed with him ( _“Okay, okay, so maybe I might have gotten an animator job with Disney, and I might have_ maybe _influenced the production of Sword in the Stone just a teensy bit, just to spite you. Just a bit!”)_.

They cried with him _(“Amelia says she’s leaving tomorrow. I keep telling her not to go, but she says her heart belongs among the clouds. She’s going to fly across the world. I begged Noonan to let me trade places with him, let me be the navigator instead, let me tag along so I could protect her. But Amelia wants to brave her own path without my help. I can only hope she makes it home okay”)._

They even learned a bit of history _(“Everyone always goes on and on about the Michaelangelos and the Titians and the Raphaels, hell even the Donatellos! I once heard someone bring up Tibaldi in conversation a few years back. Pellegrino_ bloody _Tibaldi! That man can kiss my arse, is what he can do. But where’s all the love for Cosimo Tura, hmm? Humans have no taste, I tell you”)_.

But even as they waded through that sea of heartfelt, introspective letters, there was one that stood out among the rest. Judging by the crispness of the paper, which looked like it had been torn straight from a spiral notebook, it couldn’t be more than ten years old.

 

_Dear Arthur,_

_You came back. You came back! It’s January 5th of 2015, and you came back._

_How many years have you been gone? I don’t know. Who even cares anymore? I'm not alone! You’re back!_ _And to make it even better, so is everyone else!_

_You’ve all been reincarnated. You know, you’d think that after a millennium of contemplation, I’d have considered that possibility. But no, I saw you in your sleek Armani suit as you sat beside the lake, and I think I might have had an aneurysm from the shock and confusion. I always thought you’d rise up out of the lake in the clothes you died in, speaking Old English and shaking your sword at the passing cars. I expected I’d have to teach you the modern way of things. That, or you wouldn’t come back at all._

_But you did!_

_Am I still having an aneurysm? Am I dreaming? Please god don’t let this be a dream._

_Everyone else, they look good. Better than good. This whole second life thing has really done them well. I won’t lie though, I’m a bit irked that that was an option. Why couldn’t I have been reincarnated too? Why do I have to be immortal?_

_Calm down Merlin. I promised I’d stop being bitter, and I’ll hold myself to that._

_I think this whole immortality thing will remain a skeleton in the closet. I don’t think I could face you with the truth exposed like that. You’d look at me with grief and pity, and you’d feel bad for leaving me alone all this time._

_And I think if I’m being honest with myself, I don’t really want to talk about it. It was always so easy, back in the good old days, when I knew everything about you and you knew nothing about me. I could be recovering from the loss of a loved one, and you would be none the wiser. I could comfort you, and there was no expectation on either of us for you to reciprocate. I think I liked it that way. I’ve never really been comforted before. I don’t think I enjoy it much. Makes me feel weak and vulnerable, and incapable of doing my job._

_Because looking after you fools is_ my _job, not yours._

_And it looks like I’ve finally gotten my old job back. At last! You’re back!_

_As always, but hopefully never again,_

_Merlin”_

They didn’t manage to work through all the letters. From a quick glance Arthur estimated that by the end of it they had at least fifteen unread documents clinging to the bottom of the chest.

Just as Gwaine pulled out a thick packet of three pages that looked like they’d been written through a typewriter, a foreboding slam shook the house.

“We’re ho-ome!” shouted an achingly familiar voice.

CRAP.

Arthur silently gestured for the rest of them to hurry away with the letters while he went upstairs to stall. It went without saying that they all felt deeply ashamed for having intruded on Merlin’s privacy in his absence. It was his fault for keeping such deep secrets, sure, but they still had little right.

Arthur crept into the hallway, and leaned into the threshold between the hall and the living room, posing like he’d been there the whole time.

“Took you idiots long enough,” Arthur quipped, trying to assuage the hammering of his chest.

Lance wore glasses in this lifetime. And his beard was thicker too, almost as thick as Gwaine’s. But all in all, he spoke and carried himself like good old Lancelot. It was nice to see him again.

For a moment, Arthur forgot about immortality and just focused on Lance. Good, noble Lance. Lance who had lived and died and fought like a true warrior. Lance, who didn’t lie without cause and didn’t keep painful secrets.

“I take it you all pigged out on dessert without us?” Merlin snarked with an amused grin. He turned towards the couch and set down the bulky suitcase he’d been carrying. “You can leave your stuff here for now,” he said to his new guest.

And then it all came back. The letters, and what they entailed. The story of suffering they painted out.

When Arthur looked closer, closer than he ever dared before, he could see it. The weary sag of Merlin’s shoulders; the infinite, cryptic depths in his timeless rheumy eyes; the steady set of his motions; the little throw-away comments here and there that betrayed his true age. How had no one seen it before?

Arthur tried to shake off the realization of just how much Merlin had endured, tried to act normal.

But there was a reason Merlin did all the lying and not him. Arthur didn’t have the knack for it. Which was a good thing, sure, but it made moments like these harder than they needed to be.

“We - uh - that is -”

Merlin laughed at his flustered state. “Gwaine thought he’d try and find my family’s stash of moonshine, did he?”

Not quite ‘family’ moonshine, so much as it was just _his_ moonshine. He just passed it down from alias to alias, every few decades pretending to be his own son. Clever.

“Er - yeah. Something like that. He got us all roped into looking.”

Merlin groaned, but Lance only furrowed his brow. “Moonshine?”

“Yeah, my great-great-great-great- and so on -grandpa Richard Elric used to bootleg alcohol back in Prohibition-era America. We only get to pop out his stash once every decade.”

Wait a minute. If Merlin was immortal, and every male in the Elric family tree was just Merlin in disguise, then - then _Merlin bootlegged alcohol!_ That sly bugger.

Of course, Arthur noted bitterly, if you were alive for 1500 years, you had to keep yourself occupied _somehow._ And from what he’d read in the letters, moonshining wasn’t exactly the most remarkable or illegal thing he’d done in his unnaturally long life.

“Well Gwaine did get his GED,” Lance remarked. “Surely that’s enough reason to break the trend.”

Merlin chuckled. “Yes, I suppose you’re right.” He jabbed Lance in the ribs, a mischievous sharpness settling onto his face. “I’ve got a nice cask of amontillado down in my basement, wanna go down and see?”

Lance laughed, holding his sides as he followed Merlin towards the hall. The hall Arthur was currently blocking. “For the love of god, Montresor!” Lance exclaimed, clearly quoting something that only he and Merlin understood.

Arthur tensed his body, perhaps to keep them from passing into the hall, but just one confused look from Merlin and he was already feeling a bit hot under the collar. All this subterfuge and deception - how was Merlin so good at this?

Practice, whispered a devious voice in his mind. Centuries and centuries of practice.

“Move your fat arse out of the way, Arthur,” said Merlin impatiently, snapping the reincarnated king out of his reverie. “Before I get the tow truck and move it for you.”

Arthur wavered, racking his brain for an impromptu reason for why they couldn’t go into the basement yet. Not until the chest was back where it belonged. He needed to give everyone more time to cover their tracks.

“It’s just - er - don’t you want to have some dinner first?” Arthur stammered out, hating how wobbly his voice sounded. “Gwen put the leftovers on the stove for you two.”

The immortal’s face performed an expression Arthur thought only Gaius was capable of. “Now I _know_ you’re hiding something. Gwaine didn’t break my urn, did he? That’s got Genghis Khan’s ashes in it!”

“And how is it you have Genghis Khan’s ashes in your basement again?” Arthur blurted, but instantly regretted it. No, no, he wasn’t supposed to let on that he knew. Then Merlin would realize what they’d done and -

But what was the problem? They’d have to tell him eventually. Not everyone enjoyed coveting important secrets like Merlin did. Not everyone could so easily lie to him as he could to them. Years ago, they had said the time for secrets was over.

And it was.

Merlin’s eyes widened, jaw slack, as if he realized the weight in Arthur’s seemingly innocuous question. “I-I told you, Arthur. My family’s been collecting this sort of stuff for generations. Just a long line of collectors, us Elrics.” He punctuated the lie with a nervous laugh, and it seemed even Lance saw through it.

Did Lance know? He knew about the magic, back in the day. Who was to say Merlin didn’t confide with him on this, too?

Swallowing his definitely-not-jealousy, Arthur hardened his eyes. Crossed his arms over his chest to hide the way his hands were shaking. “Don’t lie to me, _Max Elric_ ,” Arthur said. “We know. We saw the letters.”

Within a snap, Merlin managed to somehow age a million years while still looking as youthful as ever. Shaking even more so than Arthur, his knees nearly buckled. He stumbled back a few steps. “No. No, no. No no no -”

He pushed past his former king and streaked down the halls, chanting ‘no, no, no, no’ over and over. As if sheer willpower would change the truth.

And it didn’t.

By the time Merlin arrived to the basement, flinging the door open and rushing down the rickety basement steps as though his immortal life depended on it, he shouted out, “Wait don’t read tho- !”

It was too late.

Most of the letters had been tucked neatly back into their places, but the box was still open and everyone was still gathered around it.

Merlin didn’t listen to the stammered apologies and demands for explanation. He just fell to his knees in grief, feeling hollower than he had after the death of Gwen and Arthur’s grandson Loholt. Hollower than he was when they announced Amelia’s plane was missing. Hollower than when Cortes’s goons slaughter men, women, and children.

Almost as hollow as he had felt walking back to Camelot, Arthur’s blood still splattered on his clothes.

Almost, but not quite. Not as hollow as that day. Nothing could ever compare to that.

Not even his best-kept secret rearing its ugly head at the worst moment possible could compare to the hollowness of that day (but it admittedly came pretty darn close).

“What’s going on, Merlin?” asked Lance, who grabbed his sorcerer friend by the shoulder and eyed everyone else with suspicion.

“We discovered -” Arthur cleared his throat, and injected a bit more firmness into his tone. “- We discovered a box of letters he’s written over the years.”

“And?” The narrowing of Lance’s features indicated he did not in any way approve of such an action. He always was Merlin’s man first and foremost, after all.

Gwen shakily passed him a letter. “S-see for yourself.”

Lance at first looked to Merlin for a ‘go ahead’ or even just a nod of approval. Merlin just stared blankly at his hands, mist accumulating in the corners of his eyes. Wary, Lance read the letter.

It only took a spare glance for Arthur to know which one he was reading - this one was written during the Black Plague, and it was perhaps one of the more miserable entries. Just three short paragraphs detailing the pains of falling ill, and the agony of being unable to die while everyone he knew dropped like flies all around him.

Lance began to tremor right when Arthur did when he had read it - the part where Merlin bluntly wrote: _“Dying is painful, I’m sure. But not nearly as painful as living, or being pushed to the brink of death a hundred times over and never finding relief. I envy you for your mortality. I just want to be free. Is that so wrong?”_

After a few tense moments, Lance looked down at Merlin, tears streaming down his face. “Did you...are you...please tell me this is a joke, Merlin.”

Merlin said nothing, did nothing, and hardly moved beyond the ever-present tremor racking his lithe frame.

Gaius came over to him, and swept his surrogate son into his arms. “Oh, my boy,” he murmured. Merlin burrowed his face into Gaius’s shoulder, shoulders heaving and arms tentatively reciprocating the embrace. “My poor, sweet boy. Why is it always you?”

Lance quickly dropped down to Merlin’s level and joined in on the hug. “I’m sorry you had to go through that, old friend.”

Then came Gwaine, crying and blubbering as though _he_ were the one cursed with immortality. He didn’t say much, just that it wasn’t fair.

Gwen joined the hug next, tenderly kissing his brow and whispering things only he could hear.

Then Percy wrapped his arms around the whole lot of them. “Your battles are mine, friend. Even the ones that aren’t physical.”

Elyan closed the box before joining the hug, and he nestled himself between his sister and Gaius. “You’re not alone anymore, Merlin.”

Arthur looked on at this strange hodgepodge of wet tears and tender limbs, everyone wrapping together with Merlin at the center as his cries grew steadily louder. He wasn’t entirely sure where he stood in all this - did he forgive Merlin? Was he still bitter about the lies and deception? Could Arthur ever trust him again? Could he so easily embrace Merlin? Comfort him? Console him?

How did you comfort someone who’d seen so much death? How did you look a man in the eye and say it would be alright, even when you both know he’ll live long, long past your death? How did you reach into his heart and soothe his pains with your unblistered, unblemished hands and pretend you could even remotely understand his pain? How did you show love to a man who has seen and lost everything?

Any stretch for empathy seemed paltry in comparison to what Merlin had endured.

But then, after everything Merlin had done for him, it was only fair that he try.

When the group hug eventually dispersed, everyone remarking how proud they were for his strength and courage in the face of such a wretched curse, Merlin wiped his tears and gave a shaky, appreciative smile.

The smile faded, of course, when he turned back towards Arthur, who still stood at the top step with an impassive and unreadable face.

“I’m - I’m sorry, sire,” Merlin quivered out, not quite able to look him in the eye. He always called Arthur ‘sire’ out of habit when he was scared.

“You lied to me. Again.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Why?” Even though he already knew.

“It’s not that I didn’t trust you or anything,” said Merlin, hiccuping between his words, more tears threatening to fall. “It’s just...I didn’t want to talk about it. I don’t want you to have to deal with my burdens.”

Arthur stepped down the staircase until he and Merlin were perfectly level with each other. Merlin still didn’t look up from his shoes.

After a long moment of deciding what to do with this idiot, Arthur fell back on an old classic.

He smacked Merlin upside the head.

And also ignored everyone else’s cries out outrage.

“You _idiot_ ,” Arthur seethed. “You’re not my servant anymore. There aren’t any curses or bandits to save me from. This isn’t bloody Camelot!”

Merlin cringed.

“It’s 2018, Merlin. There are no kings or queens or questing beasts. Hell, the most dangerous thing right now is the weather! It’s not your _job_ to protect me anymore. You’re my friend! And friends help each other! So _let us help you_.”

Merlin’s gaze flickered upwards. “You shouldn’t have to. I shouldn’t be this wea-”

Another smack.

“Ow! Stop hitting me!”

“I won’t stop hitting you until you drive it into your thick skull that you’re not some infallible deity who doesn’t deserve any friends!” A few more smacks, with Merlin cowering and groaning and unsuccessfully attempting to dodge.

“I’m _not_! I know that, you prat!”

“Really? What do you know again?” Another smack.

Smack. “I know what you’re trying to tell me! God, would you stop that?!”

“Say it,” Arthur ordered. He had Merlin backed against a wall now, with Merlin’s arms held up to shield him from Arthur’s relentless assault of palms. “Say it!”

“Alright, alright!”

Arthur paused just long enough to hear him say his piece.

Merlin sighed. “Alright. I...I shouldn’t have kept this from you. Because...you’re my friends. And I - god, this is hard.”

“Take your time,” Gwen encouraged.

Merlin gave her a weak smile. “I - I didn’t tell you because I didn’t think I deserved the comfort, because I’m not _supposed_ to be comforted. That’s not how it works.” Arthur rose up his hand for another smack, and Merlin quickly amended, “Bu-but, _but_ , I think you might be...right. For once.”

“About what?” Arthur narrowed his eyes, still not putting his hand down.

“About the fact that times have changed.” He sighed. “I shouldn’t...I shouldn’t keep this bottled up, should I? You guys deserve the truth. And I guess _I_ was being too much of a clotpole to get my head out of my arse and stop lying for once.”

Arthur smacked him again.

“Ow! What the hell! I said what you-”

“You forgot one part, you idiot.”

Merlin opened his mouth to ask what it was, but Arthur cut him off by pulling him into a tight, warm hug. So tight that Arthur could feel his friend’s every shiver of surprise and pain unwinding at long last.

“You deserve the truth, too.”

He did. He deserved to live a life without having to lie to his loved ones. And now, he finally could.

It was hard to say how long they stayed hugging like that, with Merlin silently sobbing into Arthur’s shoulder. Neither of them knew how long it took for them to finally fall to their knees out of sheer exhaustion and relief. Another 1500 years could have passed, and they would have been none the wiser.

But 1500 years didn’t pass. Just five minutes.

The rest of the night carried on with Merlin sharing stories of French riots and dead nazis; expeditions to Australia and adventures on pirate ships; Irish pub exploits and long walks along the Moroccan coast. He toured them down the aisles of his spacious basement, and he told them all the funny and tragic anecdotes behind his acquisition of each piece. For the first time in 1500 years, Merlin was completely, totally, unabashedly honest.

They held him as he cried, comforted him through the darker moments, and smacked him upside the head every time he apologized for burdening them (that last bit was mostly Arthur).

And they did it all the while drinking Merlin’s 1795 moonshine out of plastic Finding Nemo-patterned cups.


End file.
